When we listened to the not Allen Ginsbergs spout their song
we misbehaved.
Their political drone drove us mad.
In the smoky cellar we talked
and exchanged words
on each other’s notepad.
Your song tasted like camembert and wine.
Every time I read a little I die.
I looked for the perfect line.
The evening was saved by post-industrial guitar.
A beautiful man with stunning hair experimented
with sound, his ringlets getting sweaty in the heat.
A tall woman stood still with her bass guitar.
Everything was long. She looked like a goddess
dying from the street.
They played white noise. My body hummed.
We talked about music. You smoked
your Lucky Strikes and made me feel cool.
The DJ put on the song you liked.
You looked like a 1960s vision.
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